


Lives Were Stole

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Stiles, the circumstantial pick-pocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lives Were Stole

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt response for a friend on tumblr (and by the way, check me out at obriensnsipples because there are a lot of drabbles I write that don't end up here) that asked for a pick-pocket au, and it was supposed to be a short 3 sentence fic but hah, I threw that out of the window. Anyways, let me know what you think and come talk to me!

"You’ve definitely lost your game over the past few years," Scott tells Stiles solemnly, like it’s something Stiles should get used to accepting. They’re seated on the train, heading back into LA, and Stiles feels himself bristling and his cheeks heating up when a group of teenage girls look their way at Scott’s words. 

"I definitely have  _not,”_ he argues. “You got married in  _high school,_ I don’t think you should be talking about my game, ever.” He gives the girls dirty looks and hopes their station is coming up soon.

Scott gives him an earnest look. “When was the last time you’ve had a date?” He at least quiets down to ask,  _thank god._

He thinks. “Uh.” 

"Exactly," Scott nods like he’s exactly proved his point by this. 

"I haven’t been attracted to anyone lately, Scotty, that’s all." Stiles gives his best friend a smile, even though Scott looks more worried than before. The train creaks to a stop. "I could get a date with anyone I wanted. Right now." 

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say when Scott  _leers_ at him, suddenly challenging. “Then do it. Do it when we get off.” 

Stiles squawks, “What? Ask  _who?_ There’s probably not even anyone in the station now, let alone anyone I’d want to ask out.” 

Scott levels him with that challenging glare. “You said anyone.” 

"God,  _fine,”_ Stiles huffs. He pointedly avoids Scott for the rest of the ride, trying to psych himself up and pray that he won’t have to actually go through with it. 

Because Stiles’s life sucks, the platform is completely flooded when they step off into the throngs of people. Scott seems to sense his dismay and chuckles, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “I’ll be sitting in the coffee shop watching.”

He can’t get in a word before Scott is sauntering over with a thumbs up. “This is not the way you’re supposed to wingman!” Stiles yells out, and gives him the finger. 

It takes ten minutes to find a person that he wants. 

The guy kind of has a perfect jawline even though it’s clenched in visible frustration when Stiles’s first catches sight of him. Even from his vantage point feet away, Stiles can tell that the eyelashes framing bright green eyes are ridiculously long. It’s a shock to him that he’d found someone so exactly his type in this amount of time. 

The only problem is that the guy is walking away from him at a quick pace, like he has somewhere to be. So Stiles kind of panics. 

He can’t help himself, with years of escaping the local cops (including his own father), and seeing the man sauntering down the subway platform in a form fitting grey henley, it’s easy, slipping a hand into the man’s jeans and lifting the wallet from his back pocket.

Stiles isn’t expecting perfect jawlines guy to be a cop himself, and he completely messes up in his execution and makes a sloppy job of taking it. His fingers bump against the man’s rock hard ass, causing him to turn around. Stiles can now see the badge hanging from the waistband of his jeans and stares, giving the guy ample time to take him in.

There’s a split second of confusion on the guy’s face that quickly fades to fury, and Stiles feels a split second of panic, the voice in his head yelling  _run, dumbass, run,_ but his mind doesn’t even catch up before the guy’s got a hand around his arm, keeping him back. 

"You have the right to remain silent." Stiles groans as a twinge of pain runs through his arms; they’re bent at an unnatural angle as the hot policeman pressing up against his back restrains him and keeps him from running. He’s got a voice that isn’t  _fair,_ so rough and unexpectedly demanding in his ear and Stiles wants to turn and face him, explain himself. 

"Fuck, okay, wait." 

"Anything you say can and will be used against you—"

Stiles tries to get his hands away, but the guy is much stronger than him, making it impossible to move even a little bit. “I can explain, please, it’s not what you think. I know my miranda rights, and I’m choosing to talk, so let me.” 

The guy actually stops reciting at this. “Well then. Can you tell me why exactly were you stealing my wallet, if it’s not what I think?” His grip loosens enough for Stiles to shake free and face the guy. He was right, his eyelashes are long enough to span across his cheekbones with his eyes closed. It kills him to know how right he is first-hand, though, and in such a fucking awkward situation. 

"I was taking it so I could talk to you." Fuck. 

The guy raises an eyebrow at him like he’s probably never heard this excuse before. “What?” 

Stiles feels his face flushing, he feels ridiculous. “I was going to return— return your wallet to you. So you would talk to me, and I could ask you out. I’m a fucking idiot, but I wasn’t actually going to steal from you.” 

The guy blinks. “You stole from me to ask you out.” His stance isn’t even defensive anymore, palms splayed wide at his sides. 

Stiles feels like his feet are on more even ground, because the guy looks less furious. “I _borrowed_  from you to ask you out,” he clarifies, bounces on his toes. 

"Well most people just start casual conversation to do that," the guy points out. Stiles feels a pit starting to waver open in his stomach. 

"I’m not good at casual anything, really." The guy is still eyeing him like he’s a total idiot, so he tries to get as much distance between them as he can without looking like he’s running away. "Well I’m sorry about that, officer. I don’t have to go into the station, do I?"

The guy looks considering for a moment, eyebrows lowering. “No,” he eventually says.

Stiles feels like he needs to leave before he really embarrasses himself. He catches sight of Scott, a few yards away, watching him with concern. The guy coughs lightly. “Good. Then I’ll just, leave then, die, bury myself in my yard probably—” 

"My name’s Derek," the cop says out of nowhere, and Stiles turns around slowly.

"Stiles," he answers, hesitant. 

Derek gives him an exasperated look, eyes flickering up and down. “Now this isn’t so hard, is it?” 

"God," Stiles groans, covering his face. "Can we not make fun of me for having absolutely no game—" 

"I wouldn’t say that." Derek says. Deeply. Stiles gapes a little. His eyes feel like they’re burning brands into his skin, where he’s flushed a consistent deep-red. 

"Do you want to go to dinner with me?" Stiles blurts out, because Derek’s face is so open and he can’t help himself when they guy is standing there with his arms crossed, looking more like a model dressed up like a cop than an actual one. 

"Yes, I do," Derek answers easily. 

"Okay," Stiles breathes. They’re silent for a second, and the crowd around him pushes Stiles a little closer until they’re close enough to touch. 

Derek clears his throat. Looks down through his eyelashes. “I know a place that isn’t that far from here.” 

"Great." 

"You’re paying, too," Derek adds with the tiniest quirk of his lips. Stiles laughs. 

"I can live with that. I don’t need the money anyways." 


End file.
